Category: Poetry

Poetry

Metallic Lurex Shine

Beth DeFries2 Comments

Sometimes it can be tough to remember that you are pink champagne, red lipstick, and fizzing sparklers when it’s late and the spiral’s poised on the projector just about to unwind.

Letting it run would be less than wise,

Besides you’ve already seen the reel, time and again.

Don’t you remember?

Open the closet and the drawers before hitting the pillow.

You didn’t think it fitting to represent yourself with neutrals.

You are far from beige.

That’s not your kind of minimalism.

You are flower patterns and faux fur.

Silk and embroidery.

Red shoes and lurex.

You gleam and shine for everyone.

You gleam and shine for you.

Why can’t you see it at this hour?

Embrace the beauty that you choose everyday.

Maybe get rid of the mini dresses though? You’re over thirty now, love.

Then again, maybe not.

You are long legs and lashes, soulful pipes and the biggest smile.

Remember?

You are witty and sweet.

You relish really atrocious puns and dad jokes and you’ve absolutely no right, hear?

You are worth a lot to a lot.

You are worth a lot to you too.

You are nostalgia and seasonal stamps on long-winded greeting cards sent through snail mail.

You are passionate about the littlest things.

Your imagination can create a fictional reality from an image, word, or idea.

Sometimes you can’t stop laughing, to the point of pain.

You love all your kiddos to bits.

You shine for them too and it takes a decade off you.

You are sparkly magic.

You think dancing means jumping about, assuming it’s convincing enough in a fancy enough dress.

And you love a fancy dress.

You are pearls and gold hoops and tall, loud boots.

You are an encyclopedia of book, movie, and music trivia.

You are made of stardust,

Of family and friends.

You sprinkle dreams every day, hoping they grow tall as sunflowers.

You are blind to the point that lights shine like glowing K’nex Connectors.

You are a loveable nerd and an acceptable weirdo.

You make your loved ones laugh.

You are doing better than fine, better than beige.

You are my dream girl.

Now go get to dreaming.

Poetry

Compilation 64

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Sometimes a title comes first – sometimes a particular line in a poem

There are too many ideas to write down

Representations of beauty

A mixture of grace and insanity come to life

Difficult to focus on too many things at once

Feeling lost on the snowy expanse of a blank word document

Petrified of turning eleven

Despite occasional stress fractures it’s possible to heal

Lucky house guest of the Honourable Phryne Fisher

The light glowed warm from the burgundy beam-framed windows

Freshly baked croissants

I sleep better when there is a dish towel on my pillow

My imagination plays tricks on me with evils that aren’t there

A tall, black, iron gate

A monster was never the muse

I want to know you

I started with The Hobbit

I change

And it just doesn’t look right somehow

Petals float from branch to grass

Collect the fallen

I tend to follow my gut

Like a baby by the ocean

Fade from view into one deep blue

A cocktail of salty humidity clings to the furniture

The selkies wander freely here

We sat in a dive bar in Venice

We toasted with Chivas and an Irish blessing

Watch out for other spirits lifting

I want to see the ghosts

Wisps of clouds on the distant horizon

Apparition haunting the library in my head

Enjoying my escape into Miss Eyre and Mr. Rochester’s story

My mind is a curious, cluttered place

Polygamist set of champagne flutes

I began to appreciate my reality more

I wore a blue dress to the movies

Some freeze time and some impress

A fluid turned dissonant composition

How do you “not hear” music?

I have to remind myself to slow down

I gathered my debris

Memory marathon training

Poetry in the maroon composition notebook

Dragging along the stress of extra baggage

My decision to detach

I’d have gone sooner

Put the worries away for a moment to make room for clarity and creativity

Put your brave face on

Reduced stress, more clarity, and more space

I reserved my battle cry

Ease up on the clutch; you’ll feel it

Incapable of keeping plants alive

A grueling operation to amputate the legs of our couch

We collected our bags

We were usually just a stopover

Switched out our red brick wall

Our power has been out

Why fret about it now?

We sipped warm, red wine

White twinkle lights in the kitchen

An army of albatrosses in the Falkland Islands

Already standing on the summit

Many moments in empty venues

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

Seventeen, Twenty-Six, and Thirty-Two

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I came to life at seventeen

With my suntan and purple shorts.

You were too cool, too witty for me,

But somehow you wanted me too-

A big smile and brown curls who woke up for you.

I wore a blue dress to the movies

And stole my sister’s shoes that she never let me borrow –

Head on your shoulder –

Arm in arm out the door to the car.

Ice cream kiss

Like kerosene poured on a slow burn.

I loved you before I even knew it

And realized it sometime walking in the rain,

Then woke up thinking it was all a dream.

A bus ride apart, an ocean apart.

No one understood us but us.

Love letters to Spain,

Love letters to Baltimore.

I keep them in a box to remember that you.

At twenty-six I wore a white dress –

The prettiest I’ll ever wear,

A veil, pearls, and pink shoes.

I walked a long way down to you,

Daisies, tears, and a smile on my dad’s arm.

We danced to our song

And the band erred on the words,

But the bar was open

And the room was full of love.

You twirled me when I asked you to

And I realized what it is to feel

You are exactly what you’re meant to be at a moment in time.

And I realized I was meant to be that white dress and those pearls,

That veil and those pink shoes

Being twirled around by you.

At thirty-two, I am yours still

And feel lucky you choose me too

Even though your brain can walk in a straight line

While mine thinks in roller coaster loops,

But I’m brave enough to ride them with you.

You suffer coffee kisses and New Jersey

And come home to me each night,

To water views and too many cozy lamps,

To sitting on the blue couch

Beside seventeen, twenty-six, and thirty-two.

Poetry

At War with the Machine

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Pins file in line- swords piercing cloth, perilous and shining.

The iron’s sear flattens the landscape, exposing the flaws in strategy.

Swords realign till the boiling heat of near mistake cools.

Scissors attack and obliterate the fold, anticipating the outcome with finality.

Survey the field in the calm before the hammering drums begin to sound.

Put the pedal in its place and turn on the switch.

Light shines bright and warm on gleaming metal.

Bring forth the colors.

Pull out the balance wheel and uniform the bobbin.

Wind up the artillery.

Restore the balance.

Tension and stitch click into formation.

Set the spool and wind the fuse through guides, uptake, and needle.

Join that of the bobbin and pull back to a safe distance to avoid disaster in the trench.

Fit the machine about the landscape and drop the foot.

Activate the pedal to sound the drums.

Battle commences.

Forward.

Backward.

Forward again.

Establish an anchor point

Then soldier on.

Remove any sword in your way, brave enough to face your determined hands.

File the fallen away in the tin box off the field.

Stop.

Lower the needle.

Rotate the plan of attack then charge ahead.

Drums hammer on.

The field is pierced until the last seam is sealed.

Forward.

Backward.

Forward again.

Strengthen your anchor point.

Pull back.

Sever the machine.

Survey the outcome of the battle.

Collect the fallen.

Look for the stitches that won’t heal right;

Rip out and resew the wounds.

Cautery awaits them on the ironing board.

With the badge of victory to follow.

Poetry

The Harbor Seals

Beth DeFries2 Comments

Have you read the myths of selkies come ashore?

Of seals that molt their skin and emerge in human form

To walk among men, in likeness?

Such creatures born of Celtic lore

And Norse oral tradition, bred through stories told and retold

Of their wanderings from the sea.

Their magic raiment, disguised as oiled, dark hair

Is their return fare to sparkling waters and though may be shed long

May not be lost, or ever shall they live on land, parted from the sea.

At winter’s end, the harbor seals return to the bay

And rest their bellies upon the timber pilings when the tide’s rise allows.

Crowds flock to the rocks along the bayfront to catch a glimpse,

Not bothering to look for pools of oiled, dark coats hidden in the crevices,

Their gazes fixed only upon the ripples in the water’s surface.

And so, the selkies wander freely here and walk about the land in day

And slip into their skin each night, returning home to the cool waters

When they’ve grown weary of the shore.

Poetry

Two-Way Mirror

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I want to know you.

I want you to know me too.

But on my side, I’ve a mirror,

You – a window to see through.

Do you enjoy what you see?

This self portrait of me?

Is your nose pressed to the glass?

Am I who you thought I would be?

Sometimes lengthy, sometimes brief,

Sometimes lost in the grief,

Tongue tangled with words

Typed with ease for relief.

But I ache for your stories,

Your low points, your glories.

It makes me so curious,

Diamonds – hidden in quarries.

And where do you read

All the words that I’ve keyed,

All the soul that’s been spilled

For your pleasure, your need?

And how long will you stay

To read what I’ve to say

To eyes voiceless and faceless,

Some – so far away?

Perhaps I’ll never know

How your stories all go.

I’ll continue to wonder.

I’ll continue to show.

Diamonds, so mined –

Some lustrous and shined,

Some clouded and rough,

Some polished – refined.

I’ll churn out more prose,

Hope the poetry flows,

Envelop your interest,

Press mirror to nose.

I’ll squint through the glass,

Hoping your stories pass,

But it’s tough to see through

In this mirror so vast.

Poetry

April Fools

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Magnolias itch to bloom –

A day or two they’ll stay

Till petals float from branch to grass

To shrivel and decay.

Pink and white – presented,

Ornamented on gnarled twigs,

Till mischief breathes on fragile stems

And loosens all the rigs.

The flowers do not comprehend;

The love for them’s not fleeting

And April fools, impatient, long

For next spring’s short, sweet meeting.

Mental Health · Poetry

Cement Shoes

Beth DeFries2 Comments

I do not know my self yet.

Do you not know it too?

Defining dreams pours cement in my shoes

That makes it hard to move.

I chisel at my ankles.

I wiggle my toes loose

And slip away with shallow scrapes

That wandering heals anew.

I swim in wordless waters.

I run through salt-flecked air.

I channel why and wonder how

And if I’ll find me – where?

When priers ask, “What do you do?”

I’d like to tell them true.

I do my best –

Fulfilled, bereft.

I change.

And how ‘bout you?

Poetry

A Riddle

Beth DeFries1 Comment

What’s sometimes parted, amidst meeting,

Twice – a customary greeting,

Apart, directed through the air,

In tales, can rescue princess, fair?

Some are stolen in dim corners,

Exchanged address between adorers,

A remedy for children’s aches,

Post-vow prelude to cutting cake,

Often follows bedtime stories,

Seals amends when saying sorry.

Some spread death

While some breathe life.

Some paint their faces black and white.

They share the mark of buried treasure,

Foiled morsels, small in measure.

Sometimes – directive of a dare,

Pined for by lovers undeclared.

Some are nuzzled nose to nose,

One, painted in Klimt’s renowned pose.

Some freeze time

And some impress.

On one you love,

Bestow your guess!

Health & Lifestyle · Mental Health · Minimalism · Poetry

Shopping My Closet

Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I’ve been shedding bits of myself lately-

Discarding layers

Like pilled sweaters and torn jeans in a heap on the floor,

Too careless to aim for the hamper

And call them as they are-

Pieces in need of care and mending.

Sometimes I’ll pick part of me back up and wear it again,

Beyond acceptable condition of wearability.

A muddy thought.

A wrinkled smile.

A stained mindset.

And it just doesn’t look right somehow.

And then I realize that I packed away the appropriate wearables months ago,

Vacuum sealed in a Small Space Bag 

In a plastic bin from Target.

I open the bin

And see the love, friends, hobbies, memories, and plans shriveled up like raisins packed for space rations.

I open the bag and they puff up into grapes again,

Turned with the chemical perfume of storage.

I wash my wearables

And extra spin so they look their best.

I slide into a brightly colored memory,

A cotton blend of calm and nostalgia that allows room to breathe.

I am me once again,

Happy thoughts folded in the drawers

where I can reach them,

The hamper and floor – empty,

Ready to collect me 

When I am over worn.